Govardhanh garima

 

Govardhan pilgrimage is a treat for the soul during winters. In summers, when the ground burns due to heat, walking on naked feet isn’t everybody’s game. Most of the pilgrims walk at night to avoid scorching heat.

But the real spiritual charm opens during bright sunny days in winters. Beggars, mendicants, friars, alms-seeking children, little girls decked up as tiny Radha matajis, vendors, hawkers, cows, monkeys, tea, samosas, langars, music—an exotic chaos, pushing everyone towards a mysterious orderliness, an invisible and subtly palpable rhythm.

Thousands walking, talking, chanting Hare Rama Hare Krishna, greeting each other Radhe-Radhe, the locals busy with routine life on roads and in narrow bazaar streets as the pilgrims squeeze past congested traffic, many pilgrims measuring the entire pilgrimage path with the length of their bodies by stretching on the ground and putting a stone with outstretched hands and then again lying prostrating from the point where the stone was put, the sadhus, the crippled, the poverty-lynched people, the non-disturbing hustle and bustle…  

Me and my brother cash most of what the winter has to offer by going for the pilgrimage on Saturdays. We get up at three in the morning, start at four, travel in our little car to Sonipat, park it near the railway station, take an auto or e-rickshaw to the bus stand, board the bus to Mathura, get down at Govardhan chauraha, take a bus or auto to Govardhan 22 kilometers away, reach the pilgrimage town, have tea and luscious parathas prepared by our sister, start walking on naked feet, feel the rhythm of walk in esoteric craziness, complete about 24 kilometers of pilgrimage in 4.5 hours, put on our shoes, run to catch a bus to Govardhan chauraha, get some shared cab or board a bus to reach Ballabhgarh metro station, run to grab empty seats in some compartment in the subway, sit meditatively for 1.5 hours with our caps pulled down on our faces, get down at Kashmiri gate, change metro, deboard at Subzi Mandi metro station, run to the nearby railway station to catch some passenger train heading to Sonipat, deboard at our local station, pick-up our car from the parking lot, and reach home roughly between nine to ten at night, but sometimes when the trains get late we reach home around midnight.

No fatigue in the process. We feel we have gained something. We feel all this is worth it. Pilgrimages within pilgrimages, within further pilgrimages. The restlessness within hums in tune with the buzzing collective dissatisfaction, then sublimates to a strange calm as you pick up the rhythms of walking on naked feet.

On this weekend’s pilgrimage, our sister has given us two woolen shawls for donation to the needy. One of these we give to a child widow, a tiny, shrunk old woman, clad in soiled whites in the narrow bazaar street leading to Radha Kund. In full gratitude she stretches out her bony hand to touch my brother’s feet. He has to jump back. But it’s a blessing from her side. Her touch from the depths of her misery is like blessing on one’s head. Because if you have retained gratitude despite all the shit life has given you, then your touch (even if it’s on one’s toes) is nothing short of a blessing on the head.

The other shawl goes to a eunuch. She is wearing saffron petticoat and corset; doused in the colors of asceticism. Around six feet in height, handsome in body, pretty in face, devotional in tone. She seems to have mellowed down in the folds of devotion to Radha rani. Acceptance and surrender to the unconditional love of Radha-Krishna has given her a balanced state of being between the contrasting shades of the polarity, the pressurizing duality, the binary-bound burden of existence.

The handsome-pretty devotee is all smiles to get the shawl. She has the confidence of a man and blushes like a little girl while receiving the gift, blesses us by putting her soft-firm hand on our heads.

Here everyone is a Radhe—man, woman, young, old, everyone’s Radhe. The overpowering love of Radha has sublimated even Krishna’s male identity to color it with Her vast sea of unconditional love and devotion. Beyond sexes and genders, it’s entirely Radha-Radha, pasted on foreheads and cheeks, a little saffron stamp of Radha mataji.

An old leper, limbs rotten off, lying on the ground and pleading some coins in the loving name of Radha ma.

The rope-walking little girls moving with bamboo poles to the tunes of empathy-creating songs blaring at full volume.

A young baba with a tamed monkey whose face he has dyed extra red.

A man with little tumors all over his torso lying naked waste upwards to show his misery in this cold. He has scratched himself and flesh shows at few points.

A robust man with three limbs cut, just one hand left; which one? It’s the right one if I remember it correctly.

Blind singers singing devotional songs. A puppy sitting in the lap of one of them.

The pilgrimage route is dotted with thousands of miserable scenes where you can’t avoid feeling lucky and blessed in comparison to these unfortunates.   

 

The old woman

 

Saturday, the day of Govardhan pilgrimage. We have ordered tea, to enjoy parathas prepared by our sister, around nine in the morning before starting to walk for the yatra.

An old woman stands nearby asking for ten rupees to fund a cup of tea for her. The unfailingly ingratiating tone.

Usually the alms seekers prefer currency notes, but they have to put it in the form of a request for food and tea. Money is needed by all in the world. Tea and food is available in plenty at langars organized by the people of faith at the holy town.

The old woman is clad in soiled saffron robes. She isn’t a beggar mendicant, that’s clearly visible; just someone seeing tough days who has taken refuge in the religious stream flowing through the place; someone in an encasement of adversities, the wrong hand of destiny using knives, scalpels and needles in its kitty to force an un-required surgery.

We have a few words with her, kind words, so needed in this increasingly mechanical world. Followed by what slightly qualifies to be ironical bantering on our part. The word ‘family’ crops up followed by the word ‘children’. A flood of tears starts from her eyes. We request her to sit with us and have tea and paratha with us.

Pain is sitting like stone in many hearts. Just a word of sympathy and it melts. She sips tea, eats paratha, and shares her sad story. More tears. Copious. Outpouring of pain. But it helps a human being. The cutting icicles of pain flow out, giving a temporary respite.

She has three children—two sons and a daughter. Her husband died two decades ago. Her children have thrown her out. Dishoused. Her side of the story. However, if someone talks to them—I mean her children—they will surely give ample reasons justifying their tragic deed.

Beyond demonizing stereotypes at both ends, truth is always in the middle, or a little bit left or right to the centre. I accept the blame on her children’s behalf. However irritating the parents, or nagging in habits, or idiosyncratic in behavior, it’s the children’s duty to take care of them. No other option. There is absolutely no justification for throwing one’s parents out. 

The old-age homes won’t admit her. They maintain that she is too old for admittance, being 82 years old. It’s quite funny that one is deemed too old to be admitted to a vradh ashram. Maybe they admit reasonably fit elders who can do some productive work for them in lieu of humble boarding and lodging.

She stays in a tiny room taken on a monthly rent of 2000 rupees. Her entire month is spent in walking around seeking charity and alms to collect the room rent. Food is never a concern here. There is a beeline of the people of faith holding langars and offering fresh, hot food.

Stomach full with breakfast; heart emptied of a bit of stony pain. She smiles through tears. A beautiful motherly smile reminiscent of our mother as the sun casts bright yellow rays on this cold morning.

We take leave. I give her 500 rupees. She needs it but still says, ‘Beta you have already given me tea, food and 10 rupees…’

I gently press the note into her withered palm. Putting a gentle reassuring hand on her shoulder, I move on my path.

 

The romance of pilgrimage

 

Me and my brother love going for Govardhan pilgrimage during winters. The weather is good and walking on naked feet for 22-24 kilometers is great for mind, body and soul. Every step you take, every breath you inhale, every word you chant in devotion to Radha mai takes you to a higher dimension of evolution.

We start in our small car early in the morning at four-o’-clock, park it at Sonipat, catch the 4:40 bus to Mathura, deboard at Govardhan chauraha, take another bus to the pilgrimage town 22 kilometers away, have tea and take breakfast of home-cooked parathas prepared by our loving and kind elder sister, and start walking among the excited throng of devotees.

It’s relaxing to be part of a commonality, a generality, a healing collectivism of being Radha mata’s and Giriraj’s devotees. It melts the too heavily concentrated sense of individual identity wherein one’s own issues and problems feel too heavy and burdensome. No wonder one feels light as a part of this devotional herd. The people who would have otherwise sunk in the bog of loneliness feel light, connected to fellow humans, to a greater cause while walking on a pilgrimage with fellow devotees.  

The return journey is more exciting—changing buses, metro ride and finally a night train. It feels almost like an extension of the pilgrimage. It sometimes tests nerves but then gives very nice lessons in practicalities of life and the art of being realistic.

We try to go for the pilgrimage every weekend during the winters. This Saturday the bus to Mathura stands cancelled. The buses have been ordered to go and attend some political rally by the government.

We stand dejected. Just imagine getting up at three in the morning and then come rushing to take the bus to find it cancelled. But then we hear a conductor from a nearby booth harking a sweet invitation: ‘Hardwar-Hardwar-Hardwar!’

His words chill, thrill and trill in the chilly, foggy morning like an aesthetic waterfall.

The bus to Hardwar is ready to move. And so are we! We board the bus, reach Hardwar, take holy bath on the pious Har ki Paudi, ascend the little hill to have darshan of Mata Mansa Devi, enjoy the sweet-sour vibes of the narrow market street along the Ganges, take ride in the galloping spirituality of the pilgrimage town.

An exclusive experience: arresting, exquisite, strong and sumptuous. Just because we stayed open to faith, pilgrimage and joy.

We return at night with the same smile and satisfaction as we would have if we had gone to Mathura as planned.

A little cocktail revolution in the ordinary day of a commoner. This much all of us can manage.

Dear reader, always remember that sometimes mother existence has a different plan. We just need to be open to it. Many times, it turns out to be better than the one we had chalked out ourselves.  

 

Ma Ganga Doli Yatra

 

When I’m near Gaga Ma I somehow go footloose. Walking on Her banks or on the landscapes shaped by Her torrential flow becomes my meditation, my ritual, my tapasya. I just find myself keep walking. The pent-up energies, emotions, karmic entanglements all start flowing as if pushed by Her blessing shove. I just walk. Gently. In a fine flow with myself. No destination. No goal. She does what is supposed to be done; what is needed for Her child’s growth.

This is late April and I’m staying at Dharali. I’m here to walk with Ma Ganga Doli Yatra from Mukwa to Gangotri—the colorful procession starting from Her winter abode to culminate at Her summer home. It’s a soulful procession, full of colors, redolent with local hill people’s unquestionable faith in Ma Ganga. No words can describe the feeling. The participants in the procession caught in a devotional frenzy. I walk with them and simply keep looking at Her beautiful, kind, pious face visible through the small opening in the little silver shrine being carried by the bearers. I’m just filling myself with as much darshan as possible. Plundering the divine prasad actually. Greedily. Copiously.

It’s a lovely little trek lasting about 22 km. When the procession reaches Gangotri, the entire little pilgrimage town lines up to welcome their mother. The place is as good as nonexistent without Her. No wonder, it’s abandoned during the winter months when the mother is away at Mukwa.

There is a suspension bridge over Ganga Ma linking Dharali on this side to Mukwa on the opposite hill. During nights I keep walking from this end of the bridge to the other. The hill people usually stay indoors after the dark, so I have the bridge all to myself for meditative walks. It’s a spiritually heady cocktail of elements: the mountain wind rushing through the valley, Ma Ganga’s roar, my seeking self and the pristine open starry sky above. All the elements forming a tiny intersection defining my path.

I keep asking people whether they know some real saint to recommend for a meeting. Almost all of them say—with helplessness—that presently it’s all about money, power, authority, perks and privileges; religion is more or less a big business and a political tool now; the babas are powerful and do liaisoning work facilitating big interests of powerful people. But when was it not so? The ritualistic part has always engaged with worldly matters more or less on the base frequency.

I’m more into spirituality. Moreover, this is kaliyuga—the age of darkness. And expecting satyuga purity in kaliyuga sages would be asking too much. To me it’s pretty simple. Earlier in pure climate you had massive trees lasting centuries; now we have lesser trees struggling to survive in the changed climate. The same is the case with the sages in the changed, degraded social climate. They are also the stunted version of the lofty mythical sages of the ancient times. But at least they are carrying the lineage and deserve respect for that. So I’m not too judgmental and usually try to have satsang with kaliyuga saints.

Mahesh, the gentle and kind hotelier, is a thorough gentleman; always ready to do something for the babas and matajis of the entire area from his place to Gangotri. I ask him about any serious baba. He also says with sadness that it’s all business now. ‘But you can try meeting this avadhuta. But it depends on his mood. Usually he asks the visitors to leave within a couple of minutes or straightaway refuses to meet,’ he tells me.

This babaji stays at the other end of the bridge towards Mukwa. As you emerge on the other end of the bridge, the main steep climb goes to Mukwa up the hill. The baba has a tiny hut of planks and tin fixed against a rockface on the left side a few meters above Ma Ganga’s stream. To reach his ramshackle little gate, one has to walk under the bridge along the bank and cross over to the other side of the bridge’s base.

As I reach the tiny indicator of the start of a human’s domain in free wilderness, I see a stocky figure sitting under a tree on a platform in front of the hut. I gently hark his attention from the gate. He waves his hand asking me to come in. I walk gingerly. I’m extra cautious, full of additional politeness in order not to disturb him. As I come near, with a swift action he throws a small durri piece on a beaten down wooden chair near him. I touch his feet and sit at the chair’s edge with folded hands.

‘I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you swami ji. I just wanted to see you. I simply come as an empty vessel. Ready to accept whatever you bless me with,’ I cautiously approach with respect and acceptance of his graceful presence. He laughs with childlike innocence.

I keep my promise of being an empty vessel and just listen. The baba talks. I’m lucky that he is feeling happy to talk today. He is a Begali baba initiated into Ramakrishna mission. But he found the ashrams too binding and has been on his own for the last six decades, most of which he has spent in this area near Ma Ganga including the last 37 years here at this place. Earlier he stayed in a cave about one kilometer up the stream for some years and before that at Gangotri.

He speaks with a cute Bangla accent. Quite hale and hearty for his 77 years. The baba is happy to share his life story and even tells me about his family. It’s a nice satsang for an hour and fifteen minutes. He is quite vocal about a sadhak keeping the vow of celibacy. I have my opinion on this but I know he knows more than me and I must listen to him.

‘O narayan ji, why are you unnecessarily entangled in this worldly maya? Leave it. Quit,’ he says it very naturally like he feels that’s what I should do now. ‘Sit for sadhna. You can sit in my former cave some distance from here. I’ll ask the villagers to help you initially. In any case, what does a sanyasi need? The basic needs are met by mother nature. So you need not worry about that,’ the baba is quite optimistic about me taking full sanyas and abandon all worldly connections.

‘Can’t one achieve peace even while staying in the world with its issues?’ I ask. He says a firm ‘no’ and doesn’t explain it further than this. I have arguments in my talkative mind but I don’t say anything.

Even Kaka Maharaj, who stays outside my village, asked me to abandon everything and sit for sadhna somewhere by the canal in the area where he has been staying for the last many decades. In fact, my brother laughs that I have been offered two penthouses by two babajis. But I know I’m not for complete severance of worldly ties. I’m for a balanced life in all matters. More than that, I believe in reading and writing and that I will do till my last breath. I’m not worried even if that creates situations not conducive to absolute peace. No problem.

‘If you don’t quit, the God will force you to leave all this worldliness, which stops one from enjoying the grace of absolute peace,’ the baba says emphatically. I just clear my throat apologetically.

As I take leave and stoop down to touch his feet, the baba puts his loving, kind hand on my head and gently pats my back saying, ‘Peace be with you! Peace be with you!’ He gives me two apples, a bit stale, dejuiced, somewhat shriveled. Actually all his apples are like that. He isn’t bothered about freshness of fruits. But the fruits are fresh with divine grace.

During our interaction the baba gets a firm idea, and rightly so, that I’m a bookworm. He opens a bundle of soiled cloth and from a stack of very old books randomly picks a part of an old, dog-eared book. ‘Read it! But reading scriptures is like using a thorn to take out the thorn in one’s flesh. After taking out the thorn both thorns have to be discarded,’ he says. The baba knows the utility and futility of knowledge. He is after all a graduate himself.

There I walk back after hitting the jackpot—satsang with a saint, two apples and an old book about the lamp of knowledge. The rumpled, crumpled book has been thoroughly thumbed; possibly during his former knowledge-seeking days. The thorn of knowledge which he used to pull out the thorn of ignorance. The pages bear extensive markings, underlines, sidenotes and scrawls in Bangla to give me an idea how extensively babaji has gone through this book. He seems to have gone into depths over each world and phrase on the banks of Ganga Ma over the decades.

This is a prized catch—in worldly lingo. I might not be able to read it as extensively as the baba but its mere presence among my books is enough to dispel the dark corners of ignorance in my study. It’s enlightening just by its presence. How it can’t be? After all, it has stayed in the hands of such a longtime sadhak who has definitely attained a joyful state. I feel that joyfulness in my head now. A feeling of ease. Palpable. Not many ideas swimming in the brainy pool. Just an emptiness. I feel the grace of his peaceful touch as I walk back.

Yea, missed to tell it. The baba listens with the cute excitement of a child listening to fairy tales. I was telling him the story of a Zen monk and he looked and listened in rapt attention, a childlike smile on his face all along the narration.

Mahakumbh Snan

 

February 25, a visit to the Mahakumbh mela. The more we feel the pangs of profligacy, the more we feel the need of rituals awaiting antiseptically to treat the germs of guilt born of an inner feeling about our wrongs in actual deeds, thoughts and emotions. The growing spasm between the set of moral values that we worship and our actual deeds is impulsively held tight under our instinctive dive into the pool of rituals. No wonder we have a buxom blossoming of rituals even in the modern age. Sullied with sins, we take holy dips to absolve the self from sins.

Even tragic news are attractive. Many holy-bath aspirants have died in stampedes. But instead of deterring the people, it’s attracting still bigger crowds. The government of course has a political agenda, which is its right just like any other political party, in publicizing the event. Millions throng a limited space on a daily basis. Irrespective of untoward instances, the arrangement is commendable.

Since it’s the shahi snan on Mahakumbh’s concluding day, there is extra rush to Prayagraj. The bus starting from the town is full. There are many old people. A group of young revelers on the last seat in great festive spirit. They shout Lord Shiva’s name in not so decent slang, raise a ruckus, shout, play cards, drink alcohol secretively mixed in coke bottles.

A man is travelling with his wife. He finds the drunk din rising from the last seat offensive. There is an argument. A policeman—in civil clothes—is also going to purify his body and soul. I ask him to intervene. The couple is offered a seat in the front section, away from the din. The party at the back goes as before.

By the time the bus stops at a rundown dhaba for dinner an old man is moving on unsteady legs. He is clearly drunk but still has a quarter left. He buys a small coke bottle, empties half of it as an offering to mother earth and refills it again with the contents of liquor from the other bottle. He was the most sober voice when the brawl took place earlier in the journey. He had spoken like an elderly sage, ‘Brothers you should mind the fact that he is traveling with his wife. With a woman of course one would have less digestion for such fun and cry. Even you would have found it offensive if you were in his place instead of being the merrymakers on the last seat.’

Two farming women seem to be really loyal to their bedtime. There they lie to sleep in the narrow aisle, shaken to sleep by the rattling tin cradle. About 80 km from the destination the clutch system of the bus gives in. One can see smoke near the driver seat and a burnt smell fills the bus. The engine stops. Now is the time to chant Shiva’s name with pure intensity. The older passengers remain inside. The rest of us get down to push the bus. The driver has given up hope and wants us to push it to a patrol station a few hundred meters away, visible with its hazy mercury light. He intends to park it there. And then allow the things to take their own course. But surprisingly the engine flutters to life after a few meters of pushing. It continues to run till 100 meters from the Nehru parking, the final destination. We are happy to reach despite the technical snag. I have been chanting Mahamrityunjay mantra all along the journey. So I take it as my reward for my chanting the Lord’s name with focus and dedication. 

They are minting money at Prayagraj. From Nehru parking, we ride a bike (200 rupees/passenger), travel for 12 km across the post-midnight mercury-bathed sleepy holy town and get dropped about 3 km from the sangam ghat. It’s about two in the morning and a huge crowd is merging on the point of salvation. It’s a shahi snan day and everyone must be having the thought of stampede deaths that occurred a month back. One can feel nervous air around the mass of pilgrims.

Millions of people have been visiting daily for the last month and a half. The facilities have been stretched thin, almost to the breaking point. Temporary toilet boxes are literally gas chambers. They can blow you off your senses. A person with delicate nature will surely faint within a minute if locked inside. Most of the babas have gone to Banaras to pay homage to Lord Shiva at Kashi Vishwanath temple. It feels good. The probability of being beaten by an irate naga sadhu without any provocation is very less now. Many videos have gone viral showing the nagas abusing and hitting people without any reason. They seem to be enjoying the show like little children. It’s good that most of the people take the beatings as blessings.

The crowd moves carrying a hum of faith, almost sleepwalking into the arms of divinity. Me and my friend take many dips. Millions of Her children have dumped their sins in the stream of Holiness. The water is murky. But it hardly matters to anyone. It’s about being here with openness and acceptance. Emptying yourself of your strong sense of ego and Her blessings flow in like water filling an empty vessel.

Thousands of more pilgrims arrive with each passing minute. The administration is tense. There is a public announcement going on asking the pilgrims to leave immediately after taking holy dips to avoid overcrowding. As we get out of the bathing area, thousands are moving with us, humming with happiness for having taken the holy dip.

Again a bike ride to the parking lot. And just as we reach the spot, a UP Roadways bus to Delhi is waiting to be filled. We get the last seat. The suspension system looks rudimentary. It bumps up and down like a cart even on the smooth road. The jolts put the intestines in a knotted, defensive posture. It makes the task of forgetting the morning’s call of nature quite easy. The bowl movement gets driven out of rhythm. It shuts off its operations to deal with the jolting emergency. Because in such a crisis the intestines have to save themselves first. Performance is secondary. It helps though, because there is hardly any usable toilet all along the journey. The system would stabilize only after a night’s rest.

I’m happy that I went for this holy bath. It had been playing in my mind for the last many weeks. It’s better to let the desires flow out instead of letting them stay in your system in a twisted form.

Spiritually, ritually buzzing Banaras

 

We deboard the bus and stand on the outskirts of Mahadev’s land. To reach the famous Banaras ghats we need an auto. Waseem the kind autowallah agrees to take us for 150 rupees while others charge more than 250 rupees. Political Hindutva is very aggressive. We can feel that he, as part of the minority community, is on the back foot. A biker bearing a big tilak on his forehead misbehaves. It’s his mistake but instead of apologizing he unleashes a sharp reprimand through his gutka-filled mouth. Almost hisses. At a crossing a carwallah almost bangs into the auto and carries on with his aggression through his obscene tongue. We came so near to a collision—his rash driving being the cause—that I closed my eyes. Waseem doesn’t argue. He just moves on with his business: to earn bread and butter for his family.

There seems to a tacit understanding that as UP Muslims they have to play safe. We brothers try to give an impression that India is still reasonably secure. We chat with him in a polite, friendly way. We ask him about the famous eating points in the city. So still on the way there we are sharing a lovely, mouthwatering delicacy with him at Bengal Chat Bhandar. Further on, we all three have tea at a place of his liking. He comes out of his shell, talks happily and shares his personal story. He used to work in Delhi but Corona epidemic forced him to move to his native place. It’s difficult to provide for his three children. ‘Corona took away everything… wife, Delhi job!’ he says with sadness. He remarried for the sake of his children but his second wife won’t love and take care of the children. To avoid the daily drama he decided to separate. Now his mother takes care of the children.

I think the key to unlock the treasure chest of goodness in someone is smile and kind words. The same applies to another auto driver Suresh. Give them respect and generally people would go out of their way to reciprocate on the same frequency. He tries to do his best to show us the beauty of his city. Like an expert guide he points out the famous landmarks falling on the way. The people are looking to share their stories with sympathetic souls. Very soon he is telling us about his family. He praises his wife because she takes care of his ailing parents. He is in gratitude to Mahadev that his daughter is lucky to get married in a good family.

On the ghats we come across a Tamil baba with an imposing danda draped in saffron cloth. He asks for chai, which means 10 rupees. He is very happy to get clicked. The frank baba is very honest about sharing his personal information. He takes drinks liquor two-three times a week, eats one vegetarian meal in a day, is not addicted to ganja but happily takes a few draughts of weed when offered by someone. He is very pleased to see his pictures on my mobile, gives his friend’s number and asks me to forward them to his friend on WhatsApp. The baba is joyful that his latest pictures have landed in his friend’s phone far away in Tamil Nadu and points to small gulls following boats in Ma Ganga and says, ‘I fly like those birds. I feel very light!’

Two babas in black with ash-smeared faces. You click their picture. Give us chai, they demand. One baba in orange with a carefully painted face is sipping tea. ‘Pay for my tea,’ he says while I click his picture. I don’t have change. The tea seller doesn’t accept digital payment. The baba gets angry and throws a cuss word. I hurry away lest he beats me because he seems capable of doing that. A baba with a long tower of hair braids is reclining on a platform. He naughtily waves at two white women. ‘How do you feel looking at them?’ we innocently ask. He gets offended and flares up, ‘All bitches have the same thing.’ He fumes. We placate him with gentle words and 10 rupees for chai. One ash-smeared baba is sitting on a stone bench right in the middle of the crowded bazaar opposite Daswamedh ghat. I raise my phone to click him. He brandishes a warning finger. ‘Then why are you sitting in this crowd with all this make-up?’ I feel like asking but think better of it because they have a right to beat anyone without any provocation. It’s good that common people have the patience to take their slaps as blessings.

The ghats are crowded and polluted under the throes of spiritual business. Ma Ganga is polluted beyond reparation point. The water is muddy green. I miss Her bright blue and green waters that one sees at Rishikesh. Touts literally drag you by force into the boats sadly chugging in the polluted holy river. The evening arti is elaborate in operations involving chanting of hymns, big prayer lamps and expensive rituals. A naga sadhu angrily shoves a few Brahmins roaming in the crowd with plates bearing arti lamps and receiving charity money. The ash-smeared naga seems angry and pushes the Brahmins to gather the donations himself. Most of the ash-smeared babas are very intimidating. They take it as their right to collect money and bathe first in the holy river.

The burning pyres of Manikarnika ghats have multiple pyres burning on big mounds of ash. It’s a chilly mid-December windy night. Standing near the burning pyres gives you warmth and the realization of death hugs you from very near quarters. The next day is Purnima and thousands of poor women from the villages are jutted against each other along the ghats amid stinking urine smell to take bath early in the morning next day on the auspicious full moon occasion. They huddle like a flock of sheep, taking warmth from each other under an open sky on this chilly night. Many are singing folklore songs and dancing. That’s how they will spend this cold night. The power of faith is warming their souls.

The renovated Mahakal temple complex is mythically grand and lofty in spiritual stature. Gyanvapi mosque built on the same complex is clearly an Islamic dome set up on a pre-existing Hindu temple. It’s as clear as anything else in broad daylight. Why do they even need archeological digging to prove it? The lower part clearly shows a temple structure and pillars. It doesn’t need expert digging by the Archaeological Survey of India to prove that a temple was vandalized to erect a mosque’s dome on top of it.

We have taken a mediocre hotel near the ghats. The hotel owner is an old gentleman. He doesn’t like Modi and angrily says, ‘We have been voting for him but he just tells jumlas, doesn’t work on his promises and this time was simply lucky to win from here through…’ I remember the honorable prime minister’s claims that he will make Kashi clean like Kyoto. But Banaras is stinking with pollution. I can hardly see any improvement apart from the temple corridor.

Banaras is so congested that going to Sarnath, just a dozen kilometers away, gives a totally new and refreshing experience. It’s almost opposite to the pleasantly chaotic, noisy Banaras ghats. The place seems very symbolic of the historical truth: peaceful Buddhism was churned out of the chaotic, noisy, hyper-ritualistic storm of Hinduism. One can clearly feel it.

Chaukhandi and Sarnath stupas bear testimony to the mythical whisper of silence and peace. Rows of east Asian monks going chanting mantras around the stupas. The sprawling lawns around the stupas still carry the layers of peace and tranquility that Buddha spread here centuries ago with his first sermon. The museum is full of grand Buddha statues dating back to many ancient centuries. There was a time when this land had millions of Buddha statues, temples and monasteries. Was it wiped out of India by force? Or did it naturally fade out? Or was it assimilated into Hinduism again? I believe it was a slow, almost natural process involving all these factors. Also, there are reasons to believe that aggressive Brahmanism helped in systematically dismantling it by force, cajoling and even spreading rumors.

Naresh is a small, gentle, patient guy selling Buddha souvenirs. He allows you to check his items even if you are clearly doing a free eye shopping. He even plays the instruments to give us information about them including a big conch which he plays with nice skills. He seems to be soaked in Buddha spirit and is happy to get whatever lands in his purse at the end of the day. A small conversation with him is sufficient to make you feel that he is a good human being.

Ashokan pillar is a 15.25 meter monolithic pillar of polished chunar sandstone with a tapering cylindrical shaft. It was once surmounted by an adorned lion capital which serves as our national emblem. The shaft is lying in the lawn around the stupa, the national emblem in the museum. The pillar’s broken lower shaft bearing some fragments in Maurayan Brahmi script warning the monks and nuns against schism in the sangha.

Chaukhandi stupa is a four-armed terraced brick structure. It was here that Buddha met his five disciples. The outer walls of the terraces are ornamented with niches having Buddha images. A brick tower, bearing an Arabic inscription, erected by Raja Todar Mal’s son to commemorate Humayun’s visit, stands on the top of the stupa.

Dhamekh stupa (Dharma Chakra Stupa) commemorates the place where Buddha gave his first sermon. It’s a solid brick-made cylindrical tower around 40 meter high. The circular stone drum at the base topped with a cylindrical mass of brickwork looks sturdy against the winds of time. Carved stones with geometric designs of swastika, leaf and floral patterns, birds and human figures create an aesthetic nostalgia for the ancient past. The East Asian tourists and monks are chanting hymns on the peaceful lawns and many are doing parikrama around the stupa. It’s wonderful to share the peace of this place, the place where the seed of Buddhism was sown from where it grew into a massive tree spreading the shade of its faith to far flung countries in the east.

Sarnath is a lovely open small town, its peace palpable as if drawn from the Buddhist sutras of love, kindness, peace and joy. There is a sad-looking Chinese Buddhist temple here. It was made in 1939 by an abbot from Beijing. It bears the traditional Chinese temple feature of entrance gate pagoda. The Boddhisattva hall has double pagoda roof and a monastery around a central courtyard. The walls are adorned with Chinese motifs. Hieun Tsang’s journey is pictorially depicted in attractive murals. The temple’s land was owned by China. Now a lone monk with hennaed goatee looks suspiciously at the visitors. He has central Asian mongoloid Muslim features. An interesting character, has shifty eyes and looks anything but a monk. He tells me that he is from Delhi and is taking care of the temple for the last decade. ‘A Thai monk is in charge of this place. He planned for the construction of a grand stupa. But he hasn’t returned after Corona. I myself almost died of gall bladder stone. Nobody cares,’ he is angry and sullen. I can clearly feel that there is more to it than he shares. After all, the complex is built on 12 acres of land. So definitely there are property issues.

Angarika Dharampala (born 1864, Sri Lanka) found the Buddhist sites in a deplorable condition. He established Mahabodhi society to rebuild Buddhist holy sites and restore sacred places linked to Buddha. The Bodhi tree’s branch cutting was taken to Sri Lanka by Ashoka’s son and daughter and planted at Anurudhpura. In 1931, a branch from the same tree was planted here by Dharampala to commemorate the place where Buddhism was born. Sarnath deer park, housing a few deer, is mobbed by some students on a trip. It was here that the first sermon was given. The first sermon of Sakyamuni Buddha, the seed, has germinated quite well and the mammoth tree of Buddhism is now luxuriantly spreading its branches for global peace and harmony. The tree is the grandson of the Mahabodhi tree at Gaya where Buddha attained enlightenment. I collect a few dry leaves that have fallen on the ground. I touch them with love and care—for inspiration to be on the middle path. I feel that I have a small connection with Buddhism for being born on Buddha Purnima.     

Vaah Taj!!

 

The early December morning sun beating on the monument of love. Its beauty ablaze in full floral glory. The wonder in white marble with inlay ornamentation, carved plant motifs, inlaid creeper designs; silver and gold work on the ceilings; Persian inscriptions carved in ornamental cartouches; repetitive stylized creepers inlaid on borders; marble and precious stone inlay. How much your aesthetic sense can take in under the pleasant onslaught on your senses! The arches, windows, cupolas, panels with ornamental cartouches, incised painting in multiple colors… Keep watching and trying to have a knowledge of all these details. Then you give up. Not possible. It’s a sea of beauty, only there to be felt. So you surrender to the seductive arrows of beauty and then you simply feel it, bask in this white beauty.

Here you feel that stones have a soul, a dancing one. Go to Taj Mahal to see it and feel it. Tourists are loitering in awe on the spacious plinth around the shrine of love. With soaring spirits people look up to the Taj, lost in its majesty. This is pure appreciation. But there is someone who has crossed the threshold of appreciation, built upon it to achieve something more substantial—reverence. To him it’s a living temple of beauty and he the priest. The elderly white gentleman is in love with the deity, beauty. He is performing rituals. He has some physical disability which makes him walk with a slight droop on mildly moon-walking legs. He lights a lamp of love in obeisance to the shrine. As he and his friend move around clicking pictures, he stoops down to pick little pieces of paper and patches of green shoe covers which the tourists have to wear while going into the tomb of love. It’s his business to keep it clean, safe, at least as long as he is here; to contribute his effort in maintaining the sanctity of this place.

The tourists are simply clicking pictures, chatting, laughing, enjoying the proximity to this wonder of the world. But this man is in awe of the beauty in marble. Any scrap of paper is a stigma to the splendor of the shrine of love. It’s heartening to see him going slowly with his cleaning job. It shows the depths of his feelings for this wonder of the world. A girl hops onto a ledge on the monument from the platform. Her boyfriend starts clicking pictures. The shoe covers would spoil the picture. She removes them. The Taj might be spoilt but not the picture. The gentleman walks to her and reminds her that it’s forbidden to do so. We Indians don’t care about such things. They ignore him. He reminds her twice and then finding her to be inconsiderate enough to commit this illegality, he sadly walks away.

I would term him as the best tourist visiting Taj Mahal on this particular day; someone who felt the definition of love etched in its grand design, beautiful patterns and relief pictures. Every square inch on the beautiful memorial is a complete story of perfection and flawless faith to make something unparalleled. Every little flower, leaf or geometrical pattern shows the endless hours of artistic passion. You are lost in a maze of beauty.

The sanctum-sanctorum of love, bearing the graves of the emperor and his beloved queen, lies under the main dome. The lofty vault enclosing a rich history of love and pain. Every inch carved with chisels drenched with tears of ecstasy. It’s a sea. One can’t grab its immensity. So the casual tourist, clueless how to appreciate it or say anything, settles down to the base-level appreciation. The main high-vaulted chamber echoes with voices. So they shout their names and feel pleased to hear them echoed in the unbelievably lovely interior. Little do they realize that stones have petalous souls and these shouts count as pollution doing damage to this grand creation. If at all you have to say something, say the name of the person whom you have really loved and hear its echo.    

The architectural prelude to the great Taj Mahal

 

The liberal, mystic scent of Sufism was buried in an unknown grave. So was the fate of a Sufi shahjada, Dara Shikhon, who lies buried in an unidentified grave in Humayun tomb complex situated in Delhi.

Humayun’s tomb was built by his wife Hamida Bano Begum. I like this emperor because he died in his library, not a bloodied battlefield. And his mausoleum is a beautiful precursor to the great Taj Mahal. The grand beauty of Taj Mahal doesn’t stand in abstract and doesn’t sprout on its own. This modestly grand tomb is the inspiration behind the majestic Taj. You can say it’s Taj Mahal in infancy.

Made mostly of red sand stone, with thin marble inlays, it contains many structures (containing about 150 graves in 60 chambers) within the sprawling complex. It’s a mosaic of architectural styles blending Rajput and Iranian styles such as jharokhe (windows), projections of the entrance, arches having elephant trunks and circular medallions. Interestingly, there is a structure named Bu Halima, probably named after a famous Arab dancer.

Had Dara Shikhon, the Sufi shahjada, become the emperor of India, he would have been a great Sufi, philosopher and king combined in the rarest of a rare personality blend. To understand the Upanishads and translate them in Persian one has to be the master of soul as well as languages. I’m mesmerized looking at his massive commentary on the Upanishads displayed at the museum.  This is something phenomenal; simply out of this world.

His life is a testament to the fact that it’s possible to be ‘a prince with esteemed spiritual values’. A unique royal personality, he tried to walk on the unorthodox bridge between the royal palace and the Sufi khanqah. He possessed keen interest in Hindu thought and philosophy and in pursuit of that interest he commissioned translation of many Hindu sacred texts into Persian.

A prolific writer he chronicled the life of 400 Sufi saints in his work Sufinat-ul-Aulia. In another work named Risala-i-Haq Nama he sets up a treatise on the path to the divine. In Hasanat-ul-Arifin he delves into Hindu thought through Ramayana and Krishna stories. Most importantly, his translation of Upanishads into Persian shows the depth of his soul and vastness of his mind. The beloved prince of the masses believed that Sufis and Hindus share the essential core of mystical truth.

Had he become the emperor of India, it would have been a different India altogether. But he was killed by his Islamic zealot brother Aurangzeb who ruled with sword on hardcore communal Islamic principles. The latter left enough communal mud for the current Hindu nationalists to wallow in it for political gains. The voice of sanity and secularism lies buried in one of the dozens of graves in the Humayun tomb complex, unrecognized, unsung.

Auragzeb was very punitive towards his secular brother. He buried him in an unknown grave. The historians haven’t so far been able to recognize the Sufi prince’s cenotaph. I think his grave should be discovered and a separate memorial should be built in memory of this great philosopher prince whose life symbolizes our composite culture. 

The impressive museum on the tomb premises gives a nostalgic peek into the poets who scented the society with their sweet emotions about eight centuries back. It’s an overpowering feeling to look at their works at the museum. The great poet Amir Khusro’s works displayed at the museum whisper to you, conveying the message of love and peace.

Amir Khusro’s Shirin-o-Khusro (1298-1301) deals with the tragic love story of Emperor Khusro and Armenian princess Shirin. It’s a grand feeling to look at a copy at the museum. The ancient book decorated with gold borders in nastaliq calligraphy by a master calligrapher and containing many illustrations by a master painter.

Imagine Rumi’s 25,000 couplets drenched with universality of love and compassion. That was the time when Sufism, the jewel in the crown of Islam, was at its peak. Sufism that stood for the unity of faith across various religions; Sufism that was liberal; Sufism that was mystical Islam’s loveliest prayer to the Almighty. Unfortunately Sufism too was buried in an unknown grave like Prince Dara by the hardcore, fundamentalist followers of Islam. It would have been a different world had Sufism become the public face of Islam. 

Life and times in a little hilly corner

 

The hills unfold in all sublimity as nature goes for unpaved walks. All around there is an illustrious and august affluence of her smiles, shoots, saplings, flowers, fruits, plants and trees. Foggy and pleasantly confusing trails beckon the wanderlust souls. Fleeting streamlets coolly rushing on with an assured music on their lips and spontaneous foresight in head. We try to catch up with our roads and boundaries and strive to own our share from one air, one earth, one sky, one water, one fire.

The serpentine road from Tiuni to a little hamlet near Arakot 30 km away represents this administrative and ownership tussle between Himachal Pradesh and Uttarakhand. It’s a narrow road along Pabbar river flowing with the spirit of a young lass to merge with Tons near Tiuni. The road serving almost as the border between Himachal Pradesh (left) and Uttarakhand (right).

Pandranu they tell me is in Himachal. But if you cross the iron bridge over the rapidly rushing Pabbar river and reach the other bank you are in Uttarakhand. I am staying at a lone house overlooking the Pabbar river. The owner family has gone to the higher hills because it’s apple harvest season. They have an ancient house at the native village surrounded by their apple orchards. During the day as I cross the bridge and go to the small market having a few shops by the road, I’m actually crossing boundaries many times in a day.

The common peacock butterfly (Paplio biamor), all bright and shiny, is a beautiful flier full of colors: bluish green, blue, green; a solitary fast flier in lovely fluorescent peacock colors. It’s bigger in size in comparison to the butterflies at my native place. It can even afford to flutter its colors in the windy swirls over the spating Pabbar river. So when it flutters here near the place where I’m staying, it’s the state butterfly of Uttarakhand. But when it flutters to the other side of the road, it turns an ordinary butterfly and loses its status of a state butterfly.

Near the market, down the road is a small auction mandi for the apple farmers. It’s a busy place in the morning. The pick-up trucks arriving laden with apple crates and card boxes. The main commission agent is a wily, smart middlemen between the farmers and the traders from the plains. Nearby, in the same open compound, is a tiny tin-shed snack point run by two glamorous ladies. They have tattooed limbs, wear very tight leggings and T-shirts, flaunt bleached brown hair and display flashy lipsticks. A phone number is prominently displayed on the signboard in front of the establishment. So you have many people taking extra tea or maggi even while they aren’t hungry. The porters naughtily wink that there is some side business as well.

Rajesh, the owner of the house where I’m staying, is a small man with slightly bandy legs that gives him an elderly grace as he walks. He is busy in his orchards high up in the hills. The crow flight might not be that much but to reach there one has to travel about 22 km, first on the main narrow tarred road, then cross the bridge over the river and then move up the barely motorable mud track up the hill to his native village and orchards. He and his Nepalese workers work very hard. They have even fixed rudimentary spans (wire trolleys). It’s a basic contrivance made of massive logs, planks and wires to convey apples from the higher reaches. From there the produce is laden on pick-up jeeps. These travel about 40 km on the narrow, winding hill roads. The apple boxes are then loaded on cargo trucks plying on broader, better roads to be ferried to the plains.

Rajesh has a dominating wife and maybe to keep her happy he has a framed photo of his in-laws with his little brother-in-law standing between them. I mistook it to be his parents photo because people usually keep their own photos. He was embarrassed when I pointed this out. But then if it works as a coolant in the running engine of his matrimony then there shouldn’t be any issue. His wife is hospitable like most of the pahari people are. She will give you the best of bedding and the best of food cooked soulfully. But she will turn disdainful and impetuous if you commit the mistake of picking a raw corn not yet ready for consumption. She will show you supreme scorn if you steal her raw corn. She loves her trees, plants and little rows of vegetables.

I got the opportunity to witness the rainbow colors of a nice hostess at their old, traditional wooden hill house high on the mountain. The logs were ancient but the house carried a dignity of the purity and solitude of past years. A hill house that stands against snows, rains and winds for one and a half centuries becomes almost a temple on account of its survival, for its having seen many generations under its log roofs. The ground floor is for the cattle. The wooden steps lead one to a wooden balcony. The trapdoor on the landing in the balcony is shut at night. The men-folk in the hills drink with relish. So the gathering of drinkers in the floor-bedded hall would go to the side in the balcony and urinate over the wooden railing into the bushes below. I wasn’t part of the drinking gang who did it profusely but still you need toilet at least once after the sundown. So I also did it with a guilty feeling. A dog barked from below, probably grumbling over such uncouth manners.

While the drinkers are snoring heavily, leaving the house almost thunderstruck, I have a dream. A rat snake is sneaking into the house. I spot it but feel ok because my knowledge about its non-poisonous nature avoids me from feeling the typical snake-born shock. Then another snake crawls in. This time it’s a pinkish brown cobra. A man catches its hood from behind and squeezes it to let out many big squirts of poison. Another person is holding a syringe full of water to inject plain water in place of the poison in the empty poison sacks. How I wish I could inject love in some hateful people! I was just a silent, inactive witness to all this happening in the dream.

Down by the river, while staying at their empty new house, I have a lazy time observing and learning about the place. A tea-maker told me about a scandal. Kasab was trying to fleece away two sisters of Nepalese origin on the pretext of getting them filmi jobs in Mumbai. But they were caught at the Tiuni bus stand by the Rudra Sena activists. So the hills have their own little share of upheavals among these small hamlets.

This small hilly pocket on the remote Himachal-Uttarakhand border has its little page in regional history as well. Askot Arakot Abhiyan is almost a local historical milestone. On May 25, 1974 four students of Garhwal university, on encouragement by social activist Hemwati Bahuguna, started on a 1110 km journey, from the village of Askot on Nepal border to Arakot. Shekhar Pathak, Shamsher Singh Bisht, Kunwar Prasun, Pratap Shikhar undertook this 45-day journey to study the conditions of people in the hills. They stayed with the locals on the way to know more about their life. Since then Shekhar Pathak begins this foot journey once every decade on May 25. The participants can join and leave any time. You cannot keep any money on your person so that you have the only option to stay with the villagers on the way. The tea-maker, my local history guide, was part of the fifth abhiyan in 2014 from Pangu to Arakot, passing through villages, alpine pastures, kharaks (high altitude grazing fields), earthquake and landslide prone zones, chattees (ancient pilgrimage camping sites).

He tells me about keeda jadi (Yarsa gumba) smuggling in the region of Kosha glacier in Joshimath area where Dhauli Ganga river originates. It’s used as a steroid. Forest fires are illegally started to melt the glaciers and catch the caterpillar fungus from the stones which emerge after the snow melts. The smugglers use even uric acid to start exothermic reaction to melt the glaciers. It’s a very costly steroid, he informs me. The smugglers entice the local villagers to collect keeda jadi. People have set up entire camps with porters and ponies to extract it. They unleash forest fires in the lower reaches so that the rising smoke melts the snow.

If you love wandering in the surrounding forests, you may come across a little group of Van Gujjars, the buffalo-rearing Muslim pastoral migrants, the hill nomads. But tough forest laws make it difficult for them to migrate across the hills these days. They don’t hold official papers for Indian citizenship and the police mistreats them very often. There have been some attempts to settle them at a place but they couldn’t manage their livestock within closed limits. Many get jailed for transgressing forests laws. Some have turned laborers, but most of them just somehow roam the restricted areas, evading law, trying to protect their traditional way of life and living. It’s the same old story like all the nomadic communities facing jeopardy in the plains.

‘My first love and first time had been with a Gujjar girl, right there in those forests,’ he raises his head towards the bare hillside high on the slope. I can’t see any forests. ‘The forests vanished. Like they vanished the very next day after our first kiss,’ he says with a memory-laden sweet sigh. ‘Maybe someone saw you,’ I give a reason. ‘Maybe someone saw, maybe it was just coincidence, but I got married and I’m a grandfather now. She too must be a grandmother by this time,’ he again looked into the forest that was no longer there. One would always remember the first bud that opened into love even if one stays among an orchard of love for a century. ‘Do you still miss her?’ I ask. ‘I just remember. Some things you never forget,’ he says wistfully.  

Journey with a wandering monk

 

I’m walking to the famous jhilmil gufa in the hills above Rishikesh. In order to take a shortcut I end up taking a long-cut as it usually happens. The hill forests are mischievous. The tiny foot trails are green leafy mazes where they will try to keep you busy in solving the puzzle. Then a baba arrives from some other trail. I ask him about the caves where sage Gorakhnath did tapasya for many years. Incidentally he is also going to the caves.

He is one of the most friendly babas I have seen. It’s surprising given the fact that he is a naga sadhu, the warrior ascetics who worship lord Shiva. Within a few minutes we are talking like good friends.

Baba Shambhu Giri is from Jalna, Maharashtra. He was a sickly child in a poor family. They couldn’t afford to get treatment for him. So his helpless parents offered him to the holy fireplace at the ashram of a naga baba. The baba took care of him from the age of five, treated him with herbal medicines, and initiated him into the order. He turned out to be a healthy, robust sadhu. Then his guru left his body, leaving the ashram and its 41 acres of agricultural land under the disciple’s care.

‘I’m a farming naga baba. I don’t believe in asking for alms. I do farming on the ashram land,’ he shows me his tough farming hands. The nagas have fought many times in wars to upkeep dharma. ‘Only a person from a warrior clan, the martial castes like Maratha, Jat, Sikh and Rajput, can become a naga,’ he says with pride as he walks with force in his steps like a soldier sage.

I am surprised to know about the level of their opposition to the Brahmins. I will avoid the details of that discussion because my Brahmin friends will get angry about this. I’m from a Jat family and to be frank at the level of community we too have lots of things to say against Brahmins, just like Brahmins have against us.

He is happy to learn that I’m also from a martial caste. We Indians can’t help getting into the casteist talk even when we are in the hill forests and happen to be a naga baba and a spiritual seeker. So we have our share of bitching against the Brahmins. The details should always be avoided. The summary I can say is that naga baba told me that Brahmins come from the lineage of daityas and in Maharashtra about 75% of the people avoid getting a Brahmin for officiating at a havan on auspicious occasions like marriages and other pujas. So that should give you the level of our partisan talk. Caste becomes a major factor even in talks between two strangers in a forest. No wonder caste decides who rules the country.

‘The ashram land provides enough money. Then there is charity which we sadhus get so easily just sitting on our bums whether we deserve it or not. I use the money to manage the ashram, getting poor girls married and other charity work. And once a year I come out on my wanderings like this,’ he is very honest about what he thinks and feels, be it money or caste. I like his honesty about most of the things. He just says what he thinks inside. No pretensions.

Suddenly he gets excited like a boy and goes to a bush nearby. ‘Bichhu buti, scorpion plant, I got myself bitten by it yesterday. It’s very discomfiting and painful but I won’t get any disease for the next six months,’ he tells me. Who won’t wish to have free, natural immunity against all diseases for six months? I ask him to get me bitten by the buti in the right proportions. He is hesitant. Then agrees. He holds a little shoot softly and gently allowing one tip to touch on the back of my palm. He removes it before it barely touches the skin, like a father would be careful not to harm his child. No effect. I pester him for a bit higher dose. So this time the touch is bigger, and still bigger on successive trials. I don’t wince with pain. I don’t get my free immunity shot. Both of us are disappointed. ‘This is no bichhu buti. It’s some fake plant imitating a famous one,’ we conclude.

Most of the sadhus have a free passage to the places of other sadhus. An ash-smeared naga baba is performing a havan for a seemingly rich man. It’s a large fireplace, the big trishuls are blackened with smoke and look ferocious. We sit in front of our host, he with friendly ease and me with apprehension because I have heard about their inflammable tempers when disturbed. But my naga baba friend is a shield against getting shoved away with the tip of a trishul. The ash-smeared naga is calm, focused on his rituals. He nods to our greeting and without stopping the process, gives us soaked grams and raisins as prasad. To be frank I take almost as much as would fill my cupped palms together. I am hungry and eat prasad like dinner. The naga baba watches me with a strange muse. So I have my food and my friend baba has prasad.

We take leave from the baba and move onto our path. Then he suddenly points to a place where he faced a leopard during the Corona period. The world of humans had retreated and the animals came out. ‘It was standing there and snarled. I knew it could injure me if it didn’t run away. Had I turned my back to it, it would have reached me in three bounding strides. So I stood upfront and took up a stone. Never look away from a predator and never show your back. And hit it on the nose if it approaches you. By the grace of God, the leopard backed away and vanished in the forest,’ he shares the story.

Then the baba’s chappal gets broken. I am wearing shoes. I feel guilty in walking in shoes while the baba has a broken chappal. But surprisingly he walks as if it’s not broken at all. Once in the gufa he tells me all the stories related to the place. We have tea in front of Baba Gorakhnath’s fireplace. They smoke weed. The cave’s resident sadhus are good hosts. Again the matter of caste comes up. ‘Brahmins and householders aren’t allowed to touch the holy ash in the fireplace,’ the Gorakhnath order sadhu tells me. The casteist bugs in me are getting fattened today. I nod with glee, almost happy, even joyful about the fact that Brahmins don’t hold monopoly to our faith. They maybe manage more of the ritualistic part of it. So we have to accept the fact that casteism is deeply entrenched in our Indian soul. It decides things from caves to presidential palaces. They babas are on a meditative high on weed, my head spins just with the smoke.

I stand up and walk to another small cave on the side of the big cave. And here I come across the most mischievous bala yogi, a naga boy sadhu. He doesn’t speak, just hums like a black bee. Continuously. I marvel that he is actually a black bee hovering over the divine flower to sip the nectar of self realization.

My naga friend will stay here today but I have to walk back. So Baba Shambhu Giri introduces other caves to me like Hanuman gufa and Ganesh gufa. The kind baba then guides me to the trail that would take me to Neelkanth from where I could easily walk back to Rishikesh. I take out 500 rupees before taking leave. He isn’t interested in it. He has enough he already told me. ‘Maharaj, your chappal got broken while sharing this lovely journey with me, so it’s my duty to give a replacement,’ I request in all sincerity. He agrees. ‘Ok, if you say so. I will buy a nice pair of chappals in your name,’ he laughs. We take leave.

I had a bamboo stick with me as a companion on the way up. But I forgot it at the place where we had sat down to eat prasad at the naga baba’s place on the way up. Now I miss the sturdy stick as I wade through a steep, faint trail among lots of bushes in the forest. And when I reach the place where he had pointed out the leopard I miss my stick even more. What will I do with a stick in the face of a leopard? Well, at least I would try to hit it on the foe’s nose as suggested by the baba and get a solace that I die fighting. But there is no leopard and I quickly move on the feeble trails to get to the main path.